Blood is Thicker Than Power
by OutlawEris
Summary: What if the sheriff and Robin were brothers?
1. Chapter One: Target Yard

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***  
  
A/N: Firstly, this IS going to have a plot. Secondly, this is not the same Robin and sheriff from my other stories. I have a habit of carrying characters over, but I did not this time. Just wanted to congratulate myself on that.  
  
Guess who the sheriff is!  
  
*** *** *** *** *** *** ***  
  
Geoffrey slumped noiselessly into the gloomy corner, wrapping both small arms tightly round his waist. His green eyes roamed around the room, and not a soul was visible to the young boy's eyes in the gloomy chamber. The dust-covered tapestries of the ancient Locksley armory loomed protectively above his head, encasing him in calming silence. Primordial weaponry lined the walls in a secure defense against the clamor of everyday life. It was completely silent. For once he was left to his own misery.  
  
He rested the crown of his head against the cool stone wall, and closed both eyes in thankful bliss. Finally, they had given him some time alone, a divine escape from their raucous, mocking laughter and thunderous voices. Geoffrey shifted his head to the left and rested the entire side of his face against the wall. Respite from the noises they loved so much.  
  
"Geoffrey? Where are you?" The speaker stepped into the room. A bright, merry smile streamed across his handsome face like a banner of emotion, sparkling under his brilliant blue eyes. Geoffrey curled even deeper into the shadows of his hiding. Robert.  
  
"Come now, Geoffrey, Father isn't angry anymore." Robert's shocking blonde hair flopped into his eyes as he bent his head forward, but even then he did not look half so disheveled as his younger brother. "I made him laugh again. He's in a much better mood." Robert took a few steps forward, hunting desperately for his younger brother. He was not fond of this gloomy place; it was eerie, locked in that silence that seemed to come from the ages before man. "Please come out, Geoffrey."  
  
Geoffrey knew Robert had a voice that could suck people into its will and twist them to its bidding, but he was quite immune to the effects. Robert was relatively unaware of this forcefully persuasive voice of his, but he would learn soon enough - and use it. "Please, Geoffrey? I promise we'll keep away from swordplay for now. Want to play the strategy game? Oh, do come out of the darkness. You know how I hate it in here."  
  
Geoffrey snaked noiselessly from his corner. Robert, sensing movement instinctively as he always did, grinned at him. "Geoffrey! There you are!" He ruffled his brother's matted hair affectionately. "Eh! You should find somewhere else to hide. You always look like a disheveled dog after you huddle against that wall, you know." He brushed some dust off his brother's shoulders. Geoffrey chose not to reply; he thought Robert should keep his opinions to himself. Instead of voicing such ideas, he slipped his hand wordlessly into Robert's and watched his reaction. Robert smiled down at his brother. "I suppose I've been forgiven for getting on his good side, then?" Geoffrey nodded and beamed. He knew he looked like a simpleton when he smiled, because the expression spread across the entirety of his face; it was an extremely childish appearance. But Robert wouldn't laugh. Well, mayhap he would, but if he did, it would be a pleasant laugh, without even a hint of ridicule in his cheerful tone.  
  
He clung protectively to Geoffrey's hand as they meandered through Locksley Castle. He grinned and waved to a good number of serving girls, all of whom instantly regained a sober, if not disdainful, appearance at the sight of Geoffrey. However, when they watched Robert, their lips were lifted into an adoring display of pleasure. Geoffrey, three winters younger than appealing Robert, followed obediently and accepted the treatment as normal. After all, it didn't really matter what the kitchen wenches thought of him, did it?  
  
Geoffrey shielded his eyes from the harsh sunlight of the outdoors. Robert stepped boldly into the rays without even blinking as he laughed. "Marvelous day, isn't it?" He laughed very often and very loudly. The noise almost frightened Geoffrey at times, it echoed so grandly through Locksley's corridors.  
  
The archery butts. Damn. Geoffrey peered contemptuously up at his brother. "Robert! You told me that we were going to play a strategy game!" His face mottled with humiliation. He desperately wished not to be seen displaying his awful aim. He shook his head and released Robert's hand. Time to return to his shadows. The beautiful enveloping silence that wrapped a protective blanket round him and kept the jeering others trapped outside this personal shield.  
  
Robert sighed and knelt down. "Brother, I now you hate this practice, especially with all these people milling round the place." He flicked his eyebrows in the direction of these people, rolling both eyes in a secret jest. Geoffrey smiled weakly at the obvious scorn. "But Father's anger will only be relayed if you prove that you have some skill with the bow. He'll quickly forgive you any inadequacies with the sword, I promise." He grinned apologetically. "They say a word about your skill and I'll knock their heads off their shoulders."  
  
Geoffrey followed Robert as a puppy would, staying close and quiet. "Are you frightened, little one?" Robert asked. The guards practicing at the targets were tall and rowdy and Robert knew that timid, silent Geoffrey disliked both noise and boisterous activity. But Geoffrey shook his head fervently and took a step forward. Robert laughed. "Nay, there will be no getting ahead of me, brother. Come now, I have our bows leaning against the targets. Go grab yours." Geoffrey hesitated, watching the guards. Robert's quick eyes flew to the men. "Don't you worry about them. One word and their head shall be on the ground watching you." He winked.  
  
Still smiling from Robert's jest, Geoffrey found his bow and strung it hastily. Robert was striding gallantly round the guards, jesting with them in the loud voice of a true Locksley. Even at nine, the men accepted Robert. Geoffrey hung his head in shame. Noise, always noise. Why couldn't he be like that? What made him so timid? Always keeping his mouth shut and his eyes on the ground. Not like Robert. Confident, witty, bold Robert.  
  
"Well, Geoffrey, you make quick work of stringing that bow, eh?" Robert grinned approvingly at his younger sibling's handiwork. Geoffrey was good with his hands. It was common knowledge that he could write one of the neatest hands in all of Nottingham, and at only six years old!  
  
Geoffrey's arrow zoomed towards the target. It landed very near the center, an extremely good shot. But not good enough. Geoffrey looked up at Robert, who was busy sighting down his own bullseye. Robert would surely strike the target dead center as he always did. But Geoffrey did not see the flicker of attention in Robert's eye.  
  
The arrow landed slightly askew, jutting from the target a fraction of an inch farther than Geoffrey's. Robert snapped his fingers in disappointment. "Eh, Geoffrey, another one bites the dust. My cap's off to you." So saying, he took off his cap and bowed low, so that Geoffrey giggled.  
  
"See, Father?" Robert continued, turning towards the window. Geoffrey whirled around, and in spinning himself so quickly, lost his balance and fell onto his tailbone. Their father had been watching? He trembled slightly. He'd seen the shot - the imperfect shot. And now he would be angry again.  
  
"You bested me, didn't you, little one - nay, such a fine archer should be called little one no longer. Eh, Geoffrey?" Robert watched his brother for a reaction. Geoffrey nodded meekly.  
  
"Well! The boy's got a tongue! Have him use it!" The lord of Locksley's face was crimson. Robert glowered at his father. Bully, he thought, Bully and tyrant. Then he turned to cowering Geoffrey. "Now, all you've got to do is say, 'Aye, milord' and he'll leave you alone." Geoffrey whimpered. "Nay, nay, little one. It will be easy as anything. You're always obedient. I can hardly count how many times a day you say, 'Aye, milord' to him while I say 'nay'. You can easily do it now."  
  
Geoffrey squeezed his arm and stood up. "Aye, milord!" he called, voice cracking from little use. Satisfied, the lord of Locksley stormed into another room.  
  
"Good day, jackass!" Robert called farewell to their father in a high falsetto, waving his hand girlishly in disgusting mockery. Geoffrey laughed so hard he had to clutch his sides in jubilant pain. Robert smiled lovingly down at him as he shook with merriment. "Did you enjoy that, my brother?" he asked, almost laughing himself at the sight of staid Geoffrey caught in childish giggles.  
  
Geoffrey, in his typical wordless fashion, only hugged Robert affectionately. "Love you, Rob," he murmured. And there was not a hint of jealousy in his tone.  
  
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 


	2. Chapter Two: Dinner Table

******** ******** ***

                A/N:I originally did not write this chapter. However, the next chapter, which cuts to when Geoffrey is 14, is a bit of a *major* character change. So here, in this inconsequential bit, I sow the seeds of discontent. Sorry about the decided lack of plot development. It's more character development for this chapter.  

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

                The sting of his father's hand bit Geoffrey's face, but he gnawed his lip against the yelp forming in his throat. "Useless sot! Can't you even handle a sword properly?" His face was flaming crimson from his father's words, which the entire courtyard could hear. His father had come out, in place of their usual instructor, with the distinct purpose of meticulously correcting Geoffrey's numerous faults. Their usual teacher, Wat, was leaning against one of the spare targets, smiling weakly in encouragement. He didn't approve of his lord's methods, but there was little he could do.

                Geoffrey gulped. Tears were on the edge of his eyes. He always failed his father. Why? It wasn't fair that he had been denied the charisma and talent to gain the love of even his own _father_! Jealous dark eyes strayed over to Robert, who was humming as he worked with the blade, perfect as always. If God was so just and loving, who had he given Robert every gift under the sun, and given near none to Geoffrey? 

                He sighed and went to strike the wooden block again. His father had an insult prepared even before he had lifted for the strike. "Imbecile! Simpleton! I am surprised that you even know what end to hold the sword by!" Robert snickered with amusement from his end, and the tears smudged Geoffrey's vision. Wat smiled at him again, and pointed to his wrist, a reminder to twitch to the left just before striking. Ignoring his father's abuse and blurring image, Geoffrey lunged forward and sliced at the target. It was a perfect slice, and he knew it. A slight smile flitted across his face, and he felt the strength of his own wrist. Wat nodded, smiling fondly at his quiet student.

                Robert grinned in pleasure. "Beautifully done, Geoffrey," he cried. Geoffrey glowered at him instead of smiling. _You exult in both my victories and my failures. He went on with his practice, waiting for even one word of approval to escape his father's lips as he executed flawless strike after flawless strike, thanking the Lord for Wat. None came. The Lord of Locksley stalked out of the yard without even so much as a complimentary nod, muttering about weaklings and their stupidity._

                Geoffrey threw his sword down and trailed out of the area, crying softly to himself. Wat started forward, but controlled himself when the lord of Locksley eyed him. Unlike with Robert's fits of temper, none of the servants looked upon Geoffrey with compassion. They ignored him; he was an inconsequential wrong step on the Locksley family tree. Sobs wracked his chest; he hugged himself, because no one else would ever embrace him. 

                He headed miserably to the armory, and remained there for the rest of the day. He missed supper, and snapped at the servant that he did not care to eat. "Nor do I care for my father's false affection! You may even tell him so! I care not!" And then he had fallen into fresh tears of disappointment in himself. He wished so desperately to be perfect, wonderful Robert. He wanted to be the golden child – the idol god worshiped in that temple of human perfection. Sensing the supreme distress Geoffrey was in, the servant had actually shown some compassion. "Would you like me to slip some bread in here with you?" the kitchen lad had asked. Geoffrey had lifted his head and nodded gratefully. The servant grinned at him, and he had smiled weakly in return. 

                In the hall, Robert stared angrily at his father. "You did not have to be so hard on him, Father," he commented, wondering how hungry Geoffrey was. The lord of Locksley shrugged. "The brat may sob all he wants; it warrants none of my compassion." Robert sighed and stared down at the table. "He's terrified of you, you know." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Geoffrey's scared of you. He's been having nightmares all sennight, and they're about you." 

"I do not need the child's affection, only his obedience." 

                Robert's head jerked up. "You don't mean that," he said quickly. He did not want to believe that his father has just said such a cruel thing.  The lord of Locksley sighed. "Does the whelp come crying to you?" 

"I want you to answer my question." 

"You must answer mine." 

"Yet mine came first." 

"I am your father. Answer me." 

                Robert glared at the table, fighting the need to be an obedient son. It wasn't fair to treat Geoffrey like that, and for seemingly no reason. "He does," he finally spat, turning his head downward to look at his lap.  Geoffrey would likely be in his room again tonight, sobbing because of what their father said to him. And Robert would again take the small shuddering form into his arms and try to calm his worries with kisses and encouragement. 

                "But it's only because you'd be nasty to him!"  Robert cried, standing up and shaking with his anger. "Sit down!" his father bellowed. But he didn't care anymore if he was in trouble. It _was not _fair. "You're right, Father," he barked, "Geoffrey will be perfect for the priesthood. You're so damned unkind to him he should bloody well be canonized!" With that, Robert threw his chair onto the ground. The splintering of wood soothed his anger, elevating it to the disapproval of a superior, replacing the helpless rage of before. He spat at his father and stormed out of the room, ignoring the latter's loud threats and orders. He didn't care for that man's approval anymore. His temper was ignited, and he could barely keep from screaming in rage and tearing his hair out. _He_ loved Geoffrey, why couldn't his father? What reason on God's green earth did the man have for loathing a little boy?

                Robert entered the armory quickly. Geoffrey was huddled on the floor a few feet away, wrapped in the edges of a tapestry and sleeping. Robert smiled warmly, thinking that his younger brother was quite endearing. He was, if possible, smiling in his sleep. Robert paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then decided to leave him there. Geoffrey, for some reason, preferred the armory to anywhere else in the house. He noiselessly came towards his brother, and kissed the smudged forehead. "I love you, my Geoffrey," he whispered. 

                "Love you too, Robert," Geoffrey murmured, eyes still closed. Robert jumped. "Do you want to sleep in your bed, little one?"  

"Nay, I prefer it here." 

                Robert smiled again. "I'm still around if you have another nightmare." Geoffrey shrugged, and his fingers played absently with the tapestry. "I never have nightmares when I'm in here."

************** ********

                Robert sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning. Something small and warm hit him full in the chest, and he gasped from the impact. He groaned again, and heard Geoffrey's small whimpers in the darkness. Sighing, he seated himself on the edge of his bed and held out his arms. The small creature sank into his arms and refused to remove itself from the hold. 

                "Eh, Geoffrey, calm down. I'm here, now." He yawned again, stroking his brother's hair affectionately. Geoffrey only moved to sit beside Robert, and he certainly did not stop crying, but he did loosen his ferocious hold on Robert's chest. "Sorry, Rob," he murmured, hiccupping. 

"Ah, 'tis fine, little one." The elder couldn't see his brother's features in the darkness, but he smiled in the general direction of where he was sure the head was, hoping it would be returned. 

                His head jerked upward. The light of a torch filled the hallway outside his room, and he shuddered when he saw his father's irate face glowering in the harsh glare. Geoffrey's sobs grew frantic, and he buried his face against Robert's chest, shaking badly. 

                "What do you want?" Robert snapped, watching his father with the disdain of a superior. He lifted his chin high, scowling elegantly. His eyes bore an arrogant confidence of victory that infuriated his father. But Geoffrey was hunched over, hiding under Robin's arm like a frightened hunchback and crying softly to himself. 

                "Why is the little horror crying?" the lord of Locksley barked, glowering at Geoffrey's bent body. Robert curled his lip in disgust. "Does it really matter to you?" Geoffrey's fingers were fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck, a sure sign he was nervous. Eyeing his father mockingly, he kissed the younger's forehead. 

                "Geoffrey, stand up," the lord of Locksley ordered. Geoffrey got to his feet slowly, trembling violently with both his sobs and his fear. He turned a frightened, tear-stained face to his father, hugging himself pathetically. 

A back-handed slap sent him sprawling. 

                "Weakling!" his father snapped, "Get out of here this instant!" He jabbed a large finger towards the door, scowling disapprovingly. 

                Robert stood up. "Nay! Geoffrey, you can stay here if you want!" His father whirled on him. "Do not contradict me!"

"I do not stand idle while my own blood is mistreated!"

                Geoffrey crawled to his feet, shaking. His eyes watered when he saw Robert defending him, and he wanted to fold into his older brother's arms. It was so warm and safe encircled in Robert's strong embrace; no one would dare touch him when he was protected by his older brother. And now, frightened witless of his father, he wanted those arms around him so dreadfully his chest ached with the need. But he was not brave enough to openly defy his father's wishes. 

                However, Robert did the defiant work for him. He strode forward and wrapped both of his arms round his thin waist. Geoffrey grinned, letting the deep ache disappear. He brought the side of his head to rest against Robert's chest and closed his eyes. His father wouldn't dare lay a hand to him now, not with Robert protecting him. He took a deep breath of the never-faltering protection, letting Robert's bravery and strength fill him. 

                "He can stay here with me!" Robert snapped again. 

"He will do as his father tells him, you insolent!" 

                Geoffrey tried to pull away from Robert's arms, frightened of his fate if he disobeyed. But Robert held him close. "Father's leaving," he promised. He scowled at the lord of Locksley, chin held high, eyes brimming with disdain and loathing. He was confident of victory in this argument. Even his father's impenetrable conscience had to have been affected by the obvious relief that Geoffrey exhibited at the thought of his own father's absence. His little brother nodded vaguely, relaxing into the sheltering hug. 

                The lord of Locksley stalked out of the area, scowling ferociously. "You will both be punished for this insolence," he promised. Robert sneered contemptuously at him, but Geoffrey shuddered; he was sure his reprimand would be worse than that of his elder brother. 

                The door slammed against the doorpost, sending Geoffrey into fresh tears of fright. Robert cooed apologetically and led him towards the bed. "Would you like to sleep in here with me tonight, little one?" he asked, smiling brightly. Geoffrey nodded, still clinging to his brother's tunic. 

                Both of them crawled under the warm coverlet. Geoffrey snuggled up against his protector, nuzzling into his chest. Warm affection spread across Robert's face, and he couldn't keep himself from wrapping an arm round Geoffrey's waist. "Hush, dove," he murmured, running fingers through his younger brother's hair. 

                Long after Robert had faded into slumber, Geoffrey was awake, listening to the steady breaths that fought away the oppressive night air. His heart would not stop its ferocious pounding, no matter how hard he tried to think of peaceful things. All he could see was his father's irrepressible rage, and the terrifying glower on his face. He was so frightened. So frightened. 

                He brought his head even closer to Robert's, trying to borrow some of the never-ending courage for himself. But he didn't feel any more courageous than before. But he did feel safe. He closed his eyes, frantic fear assuaged by his brother's presence. 

                He had nothing to fear – not from his father, not from anyone. Robert would always be there to protect him. _Always._

Except for that afternoon. Robert had laughed at him, just like his father. Geoffrey brought his head up to watch Robert's perfect features warily. And he was suddenly very angry, staring at those finely chiseled cheekbones and bright hair from behind his own dark eyes. Scowling, he backed away. He crossed his arms over his chest and blew air into the air irritably. For some reason, that jealous, petulant reaction kept the hysterical pounding of his heart at a minimum. 

                Robert had laughed at him. Not with him, but _at him. As if he were some village idiot taunted for public amusement. But he was not some soulless halfwit to be humiliated to provoke the laughter of his family, he was __not. He was just as sensible as Robert, if not __more so. _

                Robert didn't have _everything. _

**** **** ***

A/N: See? Very inconsequential plot, but some character development. Thanks to all my awesome reviewers! You guys rock my socks! lol. Hope you liked. 


	3. Chapter Three: Monastery

A/N: OutlawEris LIVES!!!! Sorry I've been busy lately with studying for finals and huge biology projects. (Life Cycles of Mushrooms. Reproduction of Amoebas. Need I say more?) And I promise to review for your guys, soon, too! You are awesome!!!

* * *

The wind howled outside of Grey Stone Abbey, drawing dead leaves and frail twigs across its windows and walls. The inhabitants of the building shivered nearly in unison and blew desperately on their raw fingers as nature clawed at their windows and wooden shutters.

Geoffrey peered nervously at his father; he was quite sure the man was the only creature in the shire not shivering. The lord of Locksley glowered at him, and he sent his eyes back to his feet, cringing in expectation of a wallop to the head. None came, and for a moment he wondered if the world were ending, or if his father had fallen senseless. Curious, he looked around to see if someone else was in the room; that usually meant forgiveness. But the abbot had not arrived yet. What in all of--?

Ah, yes. They were in a holy place. Geoffrey smiled weakly to himself, gifting his feet with a grin they could care less about. He was most assuredly going to like it here. Staring down at the floor, he wondered what made his feet uncomfortable. Maybe they didn't much fancy the cool stone, or maybe they were angry at him for wearing the boots that were much too small. Mayhap they didn't really like one another, or mayhap they didn't like him. They might even---

"Milord?" one of the monks called. Both Geoffrey and his father turned around, though the younger whirled with such force that he staggered. Already scarlet, he bowed quickly. The elderly man smiled happily at him. "You must be the little one training for the priesthood." Still silent, Geoffrey nodded. St. Benedict's laws had said something about complete quiet in a monastery, and he did not want to commit an idiotic sacrilege without even lasting a day.

"Aye," his father continued, "This is my son, Geoffrey. He has already learned to speak and write both Latin and English, though his Latin is hardly perfect." He eyed his youngest with disapprobation. "Can you do sums well, boy?"

Geoffrey's eyes widened like a deer's, and his lip twitched. How did he explain without speaking? The prior must have thought him a real simpleton. There was certainly no hope of his acceptance into the school for priests. Mayhap he seemed mute; oh, his father would be so angry if he had to come home again.

Suddenly, the prior laughed. "Ah, child, _you_ may speak here if you wish. Benedict's silence only applies to the actual monks. Even I can speak here, being a lay brother not under vows." Cringing, Geoffrey laughed nervously. "My gratitude, sir. I – I have been taught sums, brother, and my instructor said I had surpassed him, but he is far too kind and I likely need more work. I am a very slow student."

"That he is," the lord of Locksley snapped, "He is disobedient, lazy, and his mind wanders when it should not. Do not hesitate to beat him; it is one of the few ways to make him work. But the child loves the Lord more than any mortal he knows, so he may prove diligent in learning of Scripture." Geoffrey was scarlet. He hung his head to avoid the gaze of the lay brother; he did not want to see what the man already thought of him.

"I am sure he will make a fine priest," the monk assured them both, smiling at Geoffrey. He did wish the boy would look up.

The lord of Locksley nodded curtly. "Very well then. Good day to you." He grabbed Geoffrey's arm violently and twisted him round. "Be obedient and try to use that addled pate of yours. It is your job to bring standing to this family, and you sure as the devil better do so."

As his father left the room, Geoffrey wondered vaguely if he would have preferred a lie saying he would be missed.

* * *

"Hullo!" Geoffrey forced his eyes open. God, he was tired. A round, cheery face, dotted all over with brown freckles, grinned at him. "You're the new one, aren't you? My name's Crispin! You've got to wake yourself now; we've Mass in a few minutes." Mass? The sun had yet to even appear on the horizon, much less rise. Crispin laughed merrily at the expression on his face. "Ach, 'tis what I thought. But this always helps."

Geoffrey spluttered as the frigid well water hit him. The sudden chill resulted in an instant headache, but it did help him open his eyes. Gasping, he scrambled off of his pallet. The morning air was even worse. He clung miserably to his own arms, and found they were bare. He yelped.

"Eh, you've still got your breeches on, simpleton!" Crispin laughed, "You were so tired last night you fell asleep without even taking off your shoes. One of the brothers picked you up – where'd he fall asleep, Stephan? – ah, picked you up from right outside out the door and put you asleep. Don't worry." Geoffrey nodded, grabbing the new tunic he'd been left and dragging it over his gooseflesh.

Crispin paused to look him over. "Eh, you're a scrawny little thing, aren't you?"

He scowled, knotting his fists as he stood. But a grudging smile crossed his face when Crispin continued to grin obliviously. "Aye," he finally mumbled, tying the cord that served as his belt hastily. _The truth will set you free, eh?_

"Well, come on now," his new friend continued, "If we're late, we a get a real shock of a blow from the lay brother Wat. He's got the heaviest hand in Christendom, I swear it by the Rood!"

Geoffrey found the_ real_ shock to be that none of the brothers could hear Crispin snoring during the Mass. He continued eyeing his new friend, though his conscience was screaming orders to pay heed to the Scripture. But those screams were not loud enough to drown out Crispin's snores. Geoffrey doubted much under Heaven was.

There was a silence as everyone knelt to offer individual petitions. Geoffrey elbowed Crispin as violently as he could, and the sleeping boy jumped, yelping. His awakener winced and forced his attention to God. Both eyes shut, he summoned the silence that he could create only in prayer, the silence not even Robert's laughter could invade. He drew in breath and knew himself heard in that separate silence. It was the most remarkable experience for someone quiet as himself. But somehow he knew that his own timid voice was given full attention, even in a room filled with the loud wills and demanding voices of England's holiest. And he never even needed move his tongue.

An insistent hand clutched his shoulder and dragged him upright from his praying position. Geoffrey blinked in surprise as his tailbone slammed into the hard wooden pew. He winced and turned to frown at the boy whose action had caused the pain in his backside. Crispin grinned stupidly at him. "I did not want you in trouble, now. You were praying too long."

The rest of Mass passed without event, and so Crispin fell back to his sleep again. Luckily, Geoffrey woke him in time to shuffle from the pew and receive the Eucharist. He staggered forward, muttering his thanks. Geoffrey nodded understandingly, forcing him forward the entire time. Crispin continued praising him for the awakening, even up to the point that he received the Lord's host.

Brother Gavin held aloft the Lord's own body. "Corpus Christi."

"You're really quite a good chap, Ge—Amen." Crispin was scarlet as he returned to his pew.

After Mass was over, one of the lay brothers barked at Crispin until the boy was actually apologizing – something none of his fellows were accustomed to hearing. Geoffrey felt rather sorry for him as he filed out with the other guiltless boys who had managed to contain their need for sleep (or at the very least their snores). Crispin HAD rescued him from the perils of Brother Wat by waking him. And it was not as if he had been assigned the charge of a new student. He had simply taken it upon himself.

Geoffrey sighed, stopping midway down the aisle. Lying, God love him, was one of the worst sins, but….

"Brother Wat?" he began, stepping toward the man who was lecturing Crispin on reverence. The portly man peered curiously at him, thick brows knotting together in concentration. "I've not seen you before," he commented, eyeing him suspiciously, "What's your name?"

"Geoffrey, sir, Geoffrey of Locksley is my name." He bowed his head timidly, only lifting his eyes.

"Well, what is it you want? I've yet to finish teaching this _infidel_ the importance of reverence at Mass." Crispin flinched and simpered at Geoffrey.

"I – well, Crispin wasn't snoring, sir, he was chanting the 43rd psalm."

Brother Wat (and Crispin) dropped the lower jaw in shock. "He – he was?" the elder man asked, loosening his ferocious grip on Crispin's tunic. Geoffrey nodded hopefully. He had heard from Crispin on the way to Mass that Brother Wat was exceptionally dimwitted, even for a lay brother.

That same gossiper was now sweating nervously and trying desperately to remember one of the psalms. And the scrupulous eye of Brother Wat also further irritated him. He simpered. "It was awfully irreverent of me to be chanting a psalm during mass, sir, I know that well and I apologize," he said, bowing his head dutifully. The head of the lay brothers, Timothy, approached them just as Geoffrey explained that "Crispin just grew so very excited when you …well, the Scripture readings just fill him with this happiness…he was telling me all of it on the walk to Mass, sir." Oh, he was going to Hell for all these lies…

"Wat, what is this?" Timothy asked, stepping towards the small group. "Is there a disciplinary issue here?"

Crispin smirked demonically at Geoffrey for one hidden moment, and then flashed his shining angel's pout of contrition to Timothy. "I – I was horribly disrespectful of our Good Lord, brother. Throughout the entire service I heedlessly chanted the 43rd psalm. I simply cannot – the joy of God's word is truly too much for me." He quickly crossed himself, almost overdoing the act and earning both he and Geoffrey a sound beating for spreading falsehood. But Timothy obviously thought he saw truth in Crispin's lying eyes, for he smiled benevolently down at the "sweet young penitent". "Ah, child, that is no crime. You are in no trouble." He then turned his merry smile to Geoffrey. "And you, young Master Locksley, my gratitude for the fortitude shown by your correction of Wat here. The both of you may leave."

Crispin, soon as the two of them turned the corridor, held out his hand for Geoffrey to take. "You are officially the mastermind of Grey Stone," he cried, as Geoffrey and he clasped hands, "And I am just such a brilliant actor; we cannot really go wrong, with this one." He smirked, fully content with the nervous grin on his new friend's face. "This is the beginning of a perfectly lovely partnership."

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Robert comes back in very soon, worry not! lol. Summer vacation is nearly here!


End file.
